Dinner at the Kaspbraks
by KnightNight7203
Summary: "Sometimes—probably because he's some kind of masochist or something—Richie will invite himself over to the Kaspbraks for dinner." In which Sonia Kaspbrak wants to teach a lesson, but it backfires because she's, like, a terrible person.
1. Chapter 1

**Well, here we are like three months later and I'm still processing emotions about the Clown Movie.**

* * *

Sometimes—probably because he's some kind of masochist or something—Richie will invite himself over to the Kaspbraks for dinner.

It's always a joke, of course, or at least it starts out that way. He knows the chances of him making it into the house, let alone being served a bowl of whatever processed portion-controlled shit they're having, are slim to none. See, there's a reason his main method of coming and going from Eddie's place is through the window, and it's not because he's eager to show off his (virtually nonexistent) ninja skills in front of the one tiny gremlin who laughs at him more than any other human being on the planet.

But sometimes, because the universe hates everyone involved and wants to see them all regret being born, Mrs. Kaspbrak will stand aside with a displeased little_ tut tut_ and actually let him through the front door.

Dinner at the Kaspbraks is a _weird_ affair—sitting in the dim living room in front of the television, the thick, meaty smell of something frozen reheated for too long hanging in the air, curtains drawn, voices hushed like somebody just died. Mrs. K is usually wearing something neon and swishy that burns his retinas and leaves him grinding his teeth long after he's left. Eddie is always pale and distracted, like he's waiting for something sharp to jump out from behind the couch and bite him. Sometimes, after it's over, Richie will try to convince himself that it couldn't have been _that_ strange—but then he'll go back the next time, and it turns out his memory wasn't even doing the experience justice.

He'll perch on the arm of the recliner by the couch—because sitting normal is for unfortunate creatures a few steps below Loser on the totem pole of life—legs wrapped up like a pretzel and a bowl of a vaguely lumpy something, straight from the microwave, perched on his knee. He'll cheer when the characters in whatever soap opera is on lean in for a dramatic kiss—_"No, she's cheating on her husband, that's bad,"_ Eddie will hiss as Mrs. Kaspbrak glares at Richie's obviously faked enthusiasm—and sob dramatically when that one guy gets shot, even though he hates his weird mustache and was secretly hoping he'd get offed two episodes ago. Eddie always spends half the night with his head in his hands and the other half choking down huge bites to try to mask stifled giggles, swallowing quickly before his mother looks over and lectures him about choking hazards or some shit. And sure, Richie could be at home having dessert before dinner with his own disastrously-dressed, well-meaning parents, but deep down he finds he wouldn't actually give up these rare, bizarre occasions for anything in the world.

Here's the real truth—all jokes aside, what's actually going on here: Eddie's house and Eddie's mom might be fucked up and uncomfortable and annoying and wrong, but they're also a part of Eddie—something he, unlike Richie, has to deal with every single goddamn day.

And so, when he can, Richie makes himself deal with it too.

He _definitely_ doesn't expect to be let in tonight, because he knows Eddie has a test in math, his worst subject, tomorrow—and, also, because Mrs. K kind of maybe caught him on his way down from Eddie's window around midnight the night before. In fact, there's a pretty convincing voice in his head that strongly recommended he take this fact under advisement and lay low for a couple of days, to preserve his own wellbeing. But then a different voice—a rational one, maybe?—said that if he acted like he'd done nothing wrong, maybe she'd believe that. Because he hadn't technically broken any rules—he doesn't even really have a curfew, and it's not like Eddie was sleeping anyway.

There aren't many fans of the art of technicality in this house, though, so he's not feeling too optimistic about things.

He rings the bell. Mrs. K answers the door, like he pretty much expected. But when she does, things go off script pretty quickly.

"Well, well, well," she says through the crack, a sort of judgy expression on her face. She looks him up and down a few times. "Look who it is."

Then, to his complete surprise, she pulls the door the rest of the way open and shuffles slightly to the side.

Richie blinks a few times, then shrinks into himself to edge past her—the last thing he wants to do is brush up against her hideous, swishy track suit. He can tell immediately that the vibes are rancid in this place today, and he cannot wait to curl up on the arm of his chair and lose himself in the babble of the television and the quiet sounds of Eddie's paranoid breathing just an arm's reach away.

But tonight it seems they're not eating on the couch in front of the TV—places are laid out at the table, Eddie at one end and Mrs. K, with a crisp newspaper in front of her, at the other. Something feels weird here. Well—weirder than usual.

If he were the dramatic type, he might read into the lingering sense of dread regarding last night and the shifty look in Mrs. K's eyes—and the fact that they've reserved a fucking spot for him, like they somehow knew he was coming. He might even say this all feels a little _malevolent_.

Lucky he's not dramatic, then.

He throws himself into the chair between the two of them and picks up his fork with enthusiasm. "What's on the menu today, comrades?" he asks in a pathetic fail of a Voice, as if a small, greasy plate of plain pasta wasn't right in front of his face.

Mrs. K mercifully ignores him. Eddie twitches, and Richie doesn't like that—he didn't even get a _hello_.

"Cannibalism," he hisses at Eddie when his mom's focus is on her own bowl, because, you know, _spaghetti_. But all he gets is a small glare in return.

They eat. The only sounds are the scraping of forks against ceramic. It's stifling, but it also doesn't feel like the best place to start a conversation.

Richie does all of his tricks—he counts to 100, at least until he forgets where he is, he runs through his favorite jokes in his head, he internally recites bits of movies and comic books until he can't take it any more. He looks at Eddie. He looks at Mrs. K. Then he looks back to Eddie, because he's clearly the better choice in this scenario.

"Hey Eds," he says. He figures he'll start with a really dumb joke, one of his most PG ones. "Why can't you hear a pterodactyl go to the bathroom?"

But Eddie just shakes his head, and Richie resigns himself to an even worse night than usual. Still—it's nothing he can't handle. He and Eddie have big plans for tonight—a new issue of _The Punisher_ came out a few days ago, and Richie went to the pharmacy earlier and bought snacks—and he's sure that's more than enough to make up for whatever happens here.

Then Mrs. K clears her throat.

"So, Eddie-bear," she says into the silence. "I called your guidance counselor today."

Instantly, Richie wonders if that's what this awkward little setup is about—if Eddie's in trouble for something else entirely, and all this forced attention between the three of them instead of on the television is to make whatever lecture is coming stick. He starts planning getaway options to flee the scene without embarrassing him—you know, just in case. He's of the firm opinion that Eddie desperately needs backup in this nasty place, but he probably doesn't need onlookers to the spectacle of his inevitable humiliation.

"Neat," Eddie says, voice flat. His eyes flit to Richie nervously, like he's thinking the same thing.

"She mentioned a project in biology. Do you want to tell me about it?"

"The blood analysis with different separation techniques?" Eddie asks uncertainly. Mrs. K nods, and then it's like a switch is flipped—he positively beams.

So, fun fact—Richie's in that class, and they're definitely not working with blood. They're doing some spinny shit meant to pull the floating bits out of juice, or something to that effect. But he's not going to be the one to piss in Eddie's cheerios if he wants to pretend there's hard science happening in Room 207 every 6th period.

It's always nice when Eddie smiles, especially here.

The scientist wannabe in question blinks at his mom for another second, like he can't quite believe she's asking. Then he's off, rushing through a simplified explanation at the speed of light—like he's terrified she's going to slap a hand over his mouth when some innate timer goes off in her head, silencing him for the next week and a half until she decides to let him speak again.

It's crazy. A mother wouldn't do that, right?

But she's Sonia freaking Kaspbrak, so of course she would.

"They don't actually have a real centrifuge in the classroom, of course," Eddie is saying when Richie sees her twitch threateningly. The other boy doesn't seem to notice. "We have to crank it by hand—it's exhausting—but I think that's part of the—"

"That's something, dear." Jesus Christ, the woman didn't even let him finish a thought before cutting him off. Richie is struck by the urge to slap her, but Eddie just slumps a little in his seat, setting his fork down with a grimace even though he's only had a few bites.

"I—"

Mrs. K waves a hand, and Eddie's little protest evaporates.

"She also said something else, though. She said you haven't been stopping by the nurse's office after lunch."

"Well, how would she know?" Eddie asks, and Richie can tell he's trying to remain civil, but there's an edge to his voice now.

"She would know, because her office is right across the hall." Mrs. K smiles sweetly, all sugar on a flytrap.

"So you have spies now." Eddie's hands are clenched tight on either side of his plate, and if they were alone, Richie would probably wiggle his finger into the center of the fist he can reach until Eddie started to giggle. His palms are ticklish, for some reason. It's freaking weird, but useful in times like these.

But they're not alone, not at all, and so he just shoves a bite in his mouth and makes obnoxious appreciative noises. If he's getting chewed out (haha, that's a pun) for having appalling table manners, Eddie's not getting in trouble when he didn't even do anything wrong.

Unfortunately, Mrs. K, tank-like human being that she is, plows ahead as if Eddie had never even spoken.

"She says that you go the wrong way entirely, because you have _Richard_ with you. That the two of you walk from the cafeteria together every day."

Eddie blinks, like he knows he's waiting for a shoe to drop but he can't even see it in the air. Which is fair because, uh, _what the fuck_? "Richie's my friend—?"

Richie decides this is a good time to remind everyone he is in fact sitting right here. "Yeah Mrs. K, I get him where he needs to go." Not the nurse's office—he definitely does not need to go there—but his locker, and then class. Um, most of the time. When he can.

Well—he _tries_.

"Of course you do," Mrs. K says, a dangerous note in her voice, and with that the dinner conversation grinds to a halt entirely.

Forks screech across plates. Mrs. K breathes through her mouth while she chews. Eddie's chair squeaks a little, as he bounces his leg nervously up and down under the table. By this point, Richie is over halfway done with his portion—maybe, if he scarfs the rest, he can hit the road before anything else goes down.

Then Mrs. K clears her throat again.

"Do you read the news, Richard?" she asks, in an extremely condescending voice, like, _kids these days don't bother with anything other than dumb brain-rotting video games_. She doesn't say that, not out loud, but it hangs unspoken throughout the room anyway.

And, wow. Talk about a subject change.

Richie almost laughs—that's a strange question from someone who's known him, however reluctantly, since he was in kindergarten. Weirdly, there is actually something about newspapers that _almost_ manages to keep him engaged, what with the imperfect blurry font he has to focus on to digest and the articles that jump around from page to page and all. But still. Most days he can barely even concentrate on his favorite comic books.

It's okay, though. Mrs. K is charging ahead without waiting for an answer.

"It's just that some stories have been so … so _moving_ lately," she says, almost smugly. That can't be good. She thrusts the paper, a stack of papers really, across the table at him and breathes heavily while he skims the headlines. "Like these."

AIDS CLAIMS THOUSANDS MORE IN NEW YORK NEIGHBORHOODS.

NO END IN SIGHT FOR NATIONAL HIV OUTBREAK.

LAWMAKERS REMAIN SILENT, LEAVE GAY MEN TO DIE ALONE.

SAN FRANCISCO QUEER MOVEMENT DECIMATED BY DISEASE.

And it's vivd and overwhelming and horrible, but one thing stands out to him even more than the rest: these are not Derry newspapers. These took searching, real effort and forethought, to find.

Suddenly, it's obvious—if it wasn't already—that this isn't a casual conversation. This, right here, is the point of this meal.

_Oh god._

"Have you seen these stories, Richard?"

"Hmm?" Richie chokes out noncommittally, shoving the newspapers back across the table like they might turn into a demonic clown at any second. On an unrelated note, the large amount of rubbery pasta he just forced down feels a bit like it's threatening to make a glorious reappearance. He gulps some water from a grimy cup.

(You'd think for people so afraid about germs and shit, the residents of this house would be better at doing dishes.)

Mrs. K is still waiting for a response—apparently she cares what he has to say this time. "Richard."

"Uh, Maggie and Went aren't really into the news," he says, though he's really resisting the urge to roll his eyes so far back they'll stick like that (as the aforementioned Maggie would say). He obviously knows about AIDS. There's a little part of his brain, one that's not constantly upgrading his repertoire of "your mom" jokes or memorizing every word of _Die Hard_ or taking careful note of the way Eddie's eyelashes cast little shadows over his freckles when the sun sets in the Barrens, that basically hasn't stopped thinking about it since Reagan's ugly lackeys made gross jokes about it on TV when he was a little kid.

For some reason.

He doesn't like to talk about it, though. It's probably disrespectful or something. After all—people are _dying_. And, like, there's not really a good way to remain neutral about a topic like that in a town like Derry—depending on what you happen to say, you're either linking yourself irreversibly with the people getting beer bottles shoved up the ass behind the Aladdin, or the ones doing the shoving.

In the eyes of the Bowers gang, Richie is basically one step away from the former, and he'd like to stay where he is very much, please and thanks a million.

"But you've heard stories like these?" she presses, peering at him seriously. She scoops the papers back up and shuffles them into a neat pile. He's a little afraid she's going to start flashing them at him, one by one, like some kind of presentation in school.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I have."

"I've been reading up on some of the stories lately," she says conversationally, like she's maybe talking about the weather. Part of him considers asking why, but he's not sure he actually wants to know. "I have to say, I find the news coverage fascinating—considering, of course, the realities of the situation."

"The realities?" Richie tries not to look at Eddie, because he's pretty sure this whole scenario—where he engages in prolonged conversation with his mother—escaped right out of his nightmares. The kid probably looks like he's having an aneurism. Which, to be fair, Richie feels a little like he's in a nightmare right now, too.

But that's not quite the same thing, now is it?

Mrs. K actually laughs a little before she responds, like some kind of villain in a Disney cartoon. At least at this point she has the common courtesy to look just the slightest bit awkward about it. "The … the _types_ of people, you know. What they do. How they act—I must say, it's pretty concerning."

"Oh, I dunno," he says calmly, even though inside it feels, for some reason, like all of his organs are wrapping around each other and squeezing. Very strange sensation, that. He wonders distantly if he's going to puke for real this time. "I think they're just, you know, trying to get by. Just like anybody else."

"Well, you know what I think?" she says. "I think it's only a matter of time, with the way these people live. I think—and, it brings me no joy to say this, Richard, not even a little bit—but I think this plague is coming for them all."

So, now Richie's chest feels weird, and he wonders briefly if he's having a heart attack from all the greasy butter on the pasta. He's too young to have a heart attack, right? _Right_?

Of course. He sounds ridiculous—he sounds like Eddie.

Speaking of which.

"Ma, that's enough," Eddie says sharply, and Richie feels his socked foot nudge up against his ankle in a soft touch that's almost comforting. He doesn't need comforted, though, obviously. He has no stakes in this conversation, none at all.

He kicks Eddie away.

Mrs. K raises her hands in apparent surrender. "Just some things to think about, Richard," she says. "You know—when you're sneaking through my son's window in the middle of the night."

And with that, she sits back, gloating in the wake of this giant bomb she's dropped directly onto his poor unsuspecting head.

At the end of the day, maybe Richie didn't technically do anything wrong there—he's still pretty sure of that, and would even consider possibly staking his life on it under the right circumstances. But in an instant, his face lights up like he really, really did. He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks—it's like he's on fire—and he's sure the other two can see it, too. So now it's time to leave. It is _very much_ time to leave, or he might actually die right here on the spot.

"Mom!" Eddie says then, into the horrible, wrenching silence. But even he's not exactly sure what to do next, how to follow that absolute masterclass of a dressing-down.

And, how did Richie never realize just how silent it is in here without the television on—

He can't he can't_ he can't he can't he can't—_

Time to bail—

"Okay!" He throws his fork on his plate a little too hard, shoves back from the table. "Okay. This has been fun, but also like, super weird—so I'm gonna head out now."

Keep it together, Tozier. You're not dead yet.

So he stumbles out of his chair and away from the table, gives an awkward wave, takes a few halting backward steps. Then, and only then, he turns on his heel and _runs_.

It's dark outside. The front door swings open behind him. His bike is in the yard—he leaves it behind. Crack in the sidewalk—he trips—skins his knee. For some reason, he can't even see where he's going.

It doesn't matter, though. He's not going anywhere in particular. He's just going _away_.

There are some things that have to be understood: Richie Tozier is _not_ afraid of getting sick. He stomped through miles of graywater and didn't even get the sniffles. He poked around in piles of human remains. He killed a magic demon clown when he was thirteen fucking years old, cracked its head open with a baseball bat and watched its brains float up into space. In fact, ultimately, he is pretty sure—and with way more proof than most kids his age—that he might actually be, physically at least, more or less invincible.

So, like, the headlines were awful, and scary, but he's not—it's not—he can cope.

Here's the real thing, though: at the end of the day Mrs. K is pretty much a fucking idiot, a real dumb lady. Even if he didn't hate everything about her, he wouldn't rank her as much smarter than the average rat chewing up the floorboards in Niebolt. She can't wash dishes. She can't remember to take all of the curlers out of her hair. She watches so much television, he's not even sure she knows how to _read_.

So if she's cracking down like this on something he's never even really let himself think about—if even _she_ can tell that he thinks Eddie—that he wants—

That's not good. Not good at all.

In fact—he is so, _so_ fucked.

And so he runs.

* * *

He makes it halfway down the block before Eddie catches him.

(_How_. _The_ hell. _Is that little asthmatic fucker so fast?_)

"Richie, wait!" Jesus, he's not even out of breath. He hates him. "Richie, that was—I can't—she's—"

Evidently he's hoping some kind of brilliant words will fill these gaps, but nothing comes.

"Richie, I'm sorry," he says finally. He reaches out, like he's going to grab Richie's wrist or even squeeze his hand, but he doesn't. He just stands there, less than half a foot away, waiting for some kind of response.

"Don't need to apologize to me." Richie is aiming for a cool, unaffected voice, but what comes out is a premonition straight out of his future—when he's old aged and gross and has been smoking for 60 years. He notes dimly that his cheeks are wet—so that's why it was hard to see—but he can't exactly brush the tears away without looking really fucking conspicuous.

He clears his throat and tries again. "I always knew your mom was a psycho. Nothing new there."

"That stuff she was saying—"

"Water under the bridge." Richie shrugs. "I mean, she's definitely not getting some tonight—"

"Oh my god, will you shut up?"

"Sorry." He bites his lip. He doesn't even know where he was going with that, really. "Your mom" jokes aren't funny when they're about the literal spawn of Satan.

Eddie glares at him for a moment longer, than pushes forward.

"It's just—it makes her sound like a bad person and … I don't want you to think I'm a bad person too."

"I dunno." Richie sighs, looks away. He doesn't want to do this now. That's why he, you know, _ran_. "I mean, she made some fair points there, Eds."

"Don't fucking call me that. And no, she didn't. It's not like that. I know that."

"I don't care what you know," Richie snaps. "Why the fuck—"

"I don't want you to think I'm a bad person," Eddie repeats. He sounds so earnest, his voice is shaking. And, what, does Eds think he's some kind of saint all of a sudden or something? "Morality" is not exactly Richie Tozier's middle name.

(His middle name is Wentworth, actually. But if it wasn't, it would definitely be something rude, like "dick jokes" or "mother-fucker"—emphasis on the hyphen there.)

(His middle name is Wentworth, but if other people were allowed to stick him with one, what probably would've stuck by now is that thing Bowers always liked to yell out as he walked by.)

"I don't think you're a bad person, Eddie," he says. "How do you even—how could I?" Then he laughs bitterly. "Now, Sonia, on the other hand—"

"She's just scared," Eddie says slowly, softly. He looks pretty scared himself. "I never do anything right. She's scared."

As if that clears things up.

Richie's knee is throbbing and his head hurts and he doesn't want to be outside in the dark feeling this way, and so he decides to fix at least one of those things and lowers himself delicately onto the curb. Eddie sits beside him, radiating nervous energy.

Not that it matters—at all—but there's about a person-sized gap in between them. Somehow, that space is both the furthest expanse he can fathom and a distance too tiny to bear.

Richie picks at his knee. He fidgets with his shoelaces. "Are you doing something wrong right now?" he finally asks.

"I don't even know anymore," Eddie whispers, slow, unsure. He takes a deep breath. He leans forward just a little. He breathes again.

And then Eddie is crying, big heaving sobs, like he's the one who was just fucking eviscerated in front of the most important person in his life. Richie takes exactly one second to reflect on when and how this night went so bad so quickly before flapping his arms nervously by his sides a few times, completely unsure of what to do.

He figures it out eventually. He is, after all, one of the smartest kids in their class. He scoots closer and wraps one arm around his shoulders, loose enough that Eddie can squirm away if he wants, because of reasons.

He doesn't.

"Sorry," Eddie sniffles after a minute. He knows Richie's bad at tears. "I'm fine, promise."

He's lying, though. And that's just not acceptable. Time to do what Richies do best—making hypochondriacs in tube socks feel at ease.

"Honestly, I swear, if she called me 'Richard' one more fucking time," Richie says slowly, shooting Eddie a small smile to make sure he's actually calming the fuck down. Yeah, he can definitely go back to joking if that's what he needs to do for them to get through this. "'Richard'—who the fuck is that guy?"

Eddie's stopped crying completely now, so he asks it again: "Who the fuck is that guy, Eds?"

"I don't know." Eddie sniffs again, then giggles a little, shaking his head. "Sounds dumb, though."

"Super dumb," Richie agrees easily. "I mean, he probably wears polos and everything."

For a second Eddie chuckles to himself—and then Richie's words sink in. His eyes widen, like he can't quite believe he let that one slip by. Richie drops his arm, leaning away innocently.

"You shithead! There's nothing wrong with polo shirts. They're actually great—they're fashionable and functional, and they hold up well in the wash."

Richie cackles. "Fucking listen to yourself! Are you a teenage boy, or a middle-aged housewife?"

"Fuck you!" Eddie kicks out at him, one sneakered toe right in his bloody knee, but he doesn't notice and Richie doesn't say anything. It's fine—everything is fine.

It'll always be fine, as long as it's just like this: shoulders and knees touching, fingers just brushing, Richie and Eddie against the world.

"So what now?" Eddie asks eventually. "Are you going home?"

Richie nods immediately, very done overall with this entire day. "I did leave my bike at your house," he says. "But, uh—I'm not going back to get it. No way."

"Okay. You'll just get it later tonight," Eddie says, unexpectedly, but with all the confidence in the world. And, did he—did he _forget_ what just happened? Richie raises an eyebrow at him in disbelief.

"Hate to break it to you, Eds," he says awkwardly, "but—just so we're clear here—I'm never setting foot in your fucking house again. Not even when your mom is sleeping."

"Don't call me that," Eddie says mechanically, nothing more than an afterthought. Then he softens. "And don't worry, I know. Tonight, _I'm_ sneaking out—I'll just bring your bike with me."

He tucks his head against Richie's shoulder for just a moment, soft hair brushing the edge of Richie's jaw. Richie feels a tension he didn't even know he was carrying slip away.

"You'd do that for me?"

Eddie pretends to think about it. "I mean—I guess? I already offered, so I can't really take it back…"

"That would be very rude," Richie agrees. "But you're kind of a rude person, so—"

"Do you want me to take it back?"

Richie shakes his head and smiles for real, not teasing even a little bit. "Thanks Eds. I owe you one."

He pushes himself to his feet, even though he doesn't really want to leave anymore—but if Eddie's coming over later, he's going to have to spend at least half an hour deep cleaning his pigsty of a room. And anyway, it's them. They'll just pick up right where they left off.

"You don't owe me anything," Eddie says as he stands beside him, and after everything he's been through tonight, that sounds about right—although Richie's not sure that's exactly what he means.

They hug, a little awkwardly—Richie's last growth spurt was ages ago, but he never quite figured out what to do with his limbs in moments like these. Then Eddie gives him a little push, backward down the street, grinning from ear to ear like he's actually excited by the prospect of coming over. Which is—it's crazy. Eddie hates breaking rules, and he hates standing up to his mom about anything.

And yet the smile lingers as they back down their respective sides of the street.

He's almost out of earshot when he hears it. It's so soft Richie can barely make it out—but the words are unmistakable.

"For you, I'd do anything."

* * *

**Please give me attention, this was _exhausting_ to write.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Brought to you by quarantine boredom: here, have a little prequel.**

* * *

Richie is hanging from Eddie's window, maybe a nanosecond from letting go and dropping to the ground, when his bedroom door slams open and his mother bursts into the room.

She catches them completely by surprise. She's an absolute mess, eyes gummy with stale makeup and hair pulled up in a wasp's nest of twists and turns. Honestly, Eddie is embarrassed that even he's seeing her like this. And she is—yup, she's furious. Absolutely furious. The anger is pouring off of her in waves.

Outside in the dark, Richie's eyes widen comically for a second, like he's actually worried about Eddie's safety—like he's considering crawling back up, as though that will actually make anything better. Eddie shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, so he'll slip away out of sight.

There's a moment where they all hang suspended in time and space, Eddie on his bed and his mom in the doorway and Richie dangling by his fingertips from the window ledge, all of them working to process the situation in their own way. Then Richie's fingers release and he disappears, and Eddie's world—the normal one, how things usually are here—resumes once more.

It would've been nice, of course, if Richie could stay. Eddie always feels safer when Richie's around. But he knows—boy does he know—that his presence would only escalate the situation in the end.

And, oh god, does he have a situation here.

Honestly, this is all his fault, and it's kind of remarkable it hasn't happened sooner. See, there are some expectations in this house—as there are in most houses, he assumes, although he's also starting to think (long past the point of starting to think) that other houses are probably a little bit different. He's expected to spend at least fifteen hours a week in the company of his mother. He's expected to politely ask about her day, even if she never asks about his. He's expected to leave his door unlocked, so she can check on him whenever she wants—after all, what if he passed out, or fell, and she couldn't get to him in time? He's not allowed to play sports, because of his asthma ("asthma"). If he's in a car with his friends, which is only permitted in moderation, he's certainly not allowed to go more than five miles from home—and he doesn't even have a license himself, because she refuses to take him to the DMV. It's a dangerous world out there, after all, and everything he needs is right here—yes, Eddie-bear, it is. Right here with _her_.

Finally, his mother goes to bed between 8 and 9 p.m. every day, even on weekends—and when she does he's expected to turn in too, at sixteen fucking years old, because the very notion that he might be a person capable of thought and action in the world without her is reprehensible and incomprehensible to her entire being.

Only—_guess what, Mom_—he doesn't.

As far as rebellions go, it's mild. Pathetic, probably. He definitely knows that. But, pathetic or not, nighttime is _his_—he can read comics she won't let him buy, listen to music she hates, work on schoolwork without someone breathing down his neck, and, yeah, hang out with Richie.

His mom doesn't like any of his friends. It's all for dumb reasons: Stan is Jewish, Mike is black, Ben is still slightly overweight and therefore obviously unhealthy. Bev is a girl, which is apparently unforgivable, and also, people say a lot of really horrible things about her. Bill she just regards with general suspicion—one time, she said something about his haircut, but Eddie thinks it's actually all the raw charisma that really freaks her out.

But she's always hated Richie the worst.

Richie, bless him, actually tries. He completely eliminates the swearing around her, brushes his hair for once, loses the bright Hawaiian shirts and limits the jokes. He comes to dinner, sometimes, and pretends he can't feel the tension in the air, pretends to like all his mom's shows and whatever horrible meal they're having, including ones that even Eddie has to douse with salt when nobody's looking in order to choke down. But nothing ever really changes and his mom continues to be horrible all the time, and so if he and Richie want to hang out when she's not around, well, can she blame him? Can she?

It sounds like he's justifying. He doesn't need to justify, _especially_ just to himself in his own head. He hasn't done anything he should even remotely regret.

But the dangerous look on her face as she stares at him is making him think, just a little, that sometime soon he might.

"Sorry," he chokes out finally. "We just—we lost track of time."

His mother shakes her head, eyes deadly and cold. When she gets like this, he hates it—he'll drive himself into a panic inventing worse- and worse-case scenarios about whatever conspiracy is going through her head. He finds himself wishing she would say something—anything—just to end the horrible awkward silence.

Then she does speak, and it knocks Eddie's world completely out of orbit.

She doesn't ask if they had a school project, something that's due tomorrow that they were working on late into the night. She doesn't ask if they were listening to music, or reading comic books, or if they maybe came home exhausted from school and life in general and just napped a little (well, a lot) too long. She doesn't ask _anything_ normal, like what Richie's parents might, or Bill's probably, or even Stan's or Ben's, if they happened to find two best friends hanging out a little (lot) late on a school night.

No, she takes one look at him—_him_, dressed from head to toe in his little-kid Star Wars pajamas that Richie thinks are funny, complete with goddamn fuzzy slippers for Pete's sake—and says, completely flat: "You're sleeping with him." It's not even a question.

You know the sound that happens when you accidentally bring a microphone too close to a speaker, and it lets loose and shrieks? That's what fills Eddie's brain.

"Mommy," he says, horrified—and then he says nothing. His mind is absolutely devoid of the English language in this terrible gaping moment, that stretches from now until the end of time.

_You're sleeping with him._

_What._

_What?!_

His mother takes advantage of his shocked, frozen state to stomp over to his bed and start rifling through his blankets—what she's looking for, Eddie has no idea, though she does uncover a few new comic books that she throws roughly aside and he wants to scream. Apparently then she decides then that her creepy unemotional response isn't going to get her where she wants this to go, because she bursts into tears—horrible, heaving crocodile tears, ones that require grotesque facial contortions to force out, and Eddie can't even look at her when she's like this.

That is, of course, the _only_ reason he's avoiding eye contact like it will inflict him with every plague known to man.

"I just—just—cannot _believe_ you've done this to me," she wails. It's a great performance—sometimes, Eddie wonders if she would have been happier in life as an actress in one of the soap operas she loves so much. "What will people think—what will people say—"

People? What _people_—

Suddenly the stakes of this little argument seem significantly higher, and he forces himself into a state of being that's capable of at least some semblance of speech.

"Mommy," he says, very very slowly, because it's extremely important to the continuing existence of the entire universe that she understand this right away. "I have not done anything. Not a single thing. So you can stop this now, please."

That's not strictly true, of course—he's done some things, things that at this point in time he'd honestly be thrilled to cop to just to regain a little bit of control over the situation. He's up way past bedtime, sure. He has lots of contraband comics—and food!—completely exposed to detection if only she would take a quick glance around! He's about to fail a math test tomorrow, because he didn't study at all. Also, he may or may not have a very crude voodoo doll with curlers in its matted yarn hair, sewn lovingly by Bev, that he slams repeatedly in his closet door when he's feeling particularly suffocated in this horrible, horrible house.

But, in the context of _this_ dumpster-fire of a conversation, he is completely and totally innocent. He's never even _thought_ about—about things like that, romance and bodies and shit, because it grosses him out and makes him uncomfortable and adds just a whole bunch of stress that he doesn't need on account of things like nerves and good digestion and a non-fatal heart rate. He likes relationships where he is just friends and everyone keeps their hands to themselves and their clothes on and he would never—_never_—

He would never.

He would appreciate it very much if she would get that through her head immediately.

His mother does stop crying—the tears dry up so quickly that it's obvious now, if it wasn't before, that she was completely faking. But instead of apologizing for jumping to wild conclusions, or maybe moving on to the comic book thing, she just sneers at him.

"Oh, that may be," she says. "But you want to."

Eddie's mouth falls open.

So now he's floundering again, because how exactly is he supposed to respond to that? Absolutely nothing in his life has prepared him for this moment, not his mother's previous ravings and accusations or Richie's rude jokes or even Bowers' weird obsession with friends who both happen to be boys. She's never so much as given him the Talk—the normal one, about girls. There is no conceivable reality in which this conversation should be happening.

"No?"

His mother gives a little laugh—a scary one, nothing pleasant about it at all—before moving away from the bed and stepping toward him, forcing him to retreat back into the corner of his room. He does, because he's not fucking Superman. He gets scared once in a while. So sue him.

"I see the way you look at him," she snaps, when he's good and trapped. Not that he has anywhere to go even if he could get past her. "I'm not blind, Eddie-bear. I know everything about you."

"No," he says again, stronger this time, because that doesn't sound quite right. There are plenty of things he doesn't tell her—not _this_, of course, because she's completely wrong about everything she's said tonight, but things.

But she raises a finger, and his protests die on his lips.

"You don't know this, because you don't care about me," she says, changing tactics now. "You never want me to talk about myself. But sometimes I run into Karen Mueller at lunch."

_Congratulations_, is what Eddie really wants to say to that useless bit of information. He absolutely does not care what this woman does in her free time, not in the slightest. In fact, he wants to know much less about what she thinks and why she thinks it than what he is currently being offered. So much less.

But based on the way things are going so far and the expression on his mother's face, he's sure there's something else very bad coming, and he doesn't want to make things worse for himself by being disrespectful in the meantime. He holds his tongue.

"Her precious girl Sally is your age," she continues, smiling a bit at the idea of a sweet, gentle daughter—not that that's what Sally Mueller is, not by a long shot, but his mother has no way of knowing that. "She has conversations with her mother, tells her about what goes on in school. So imagine my surprise when Karen told me that people talk—not about you, thank the Lord, but about that Tozier boy."

_That Tozier boy_ is what she always calls Richie when he's not around, but it sounds a little different tonight.

"Do you know what they say about that boy, Eddie?" she hisses. Of course he does—they all do, even if they pretend to be ignorant of it for Richie's sake—and he can see in her eyes the second she reads that on his face. She points a finger at him. "So you tell me: what am I supposed to think?"

"That he's my friend!" Eddie says. "That people who spread rumors—and people who _listen to them_—are the worst kind of people—"

"Not the worst," she retorts, and damn if he doesn't know what she's implying there.

He pushes past her, against his better judgement maybe, because now he _can't breathe_. For once, she doesn't mention his asthma, even as he literally chokes for a breath. She stands and watches him with cold eyes, not even bothering to offer him the inhaler she's used to control him for years. Then, when he finally starts getting himself under control, she scrunches her face and starts squeezing out the tears again until she's a gasping, blubbering mess.

"I just don't know what I did wrong," she wails as he stands hunched over, trying to force his breathing to remain even. "I try so hard to be a good mother, but I must not be, because nothing about this is the way my life was supposed to go."

"You didn't do anything wrong," Eddie tells her, and god, it's so stupid that he's still trying to make _her_ feel better here and yet immediately that's what he does. He's _pathetic_. "There's not—you're just overreacting—"

At that, her head snaps up and she steps toward him again, and for a terrifying instant Eddie is almost sure she's going to smack him across the face. "I do _not_ overreact, Edward—about _anything_."

He almost laughs, except for the fact that he's scared to death. If he was given the chance to choose just one virtue for her to magically develop, he thinks a good one might be the gift of self awareness.

She doesn't hit him, thankfully—Richie would never overlook a mark on his cheek when he sees him at school tomorrow, and he couldn't explain something like that away. But what she does instead is kind of maybe worse—she fixes him with a stare so penetrating that it makes him feel hollow and bare, her beady eyes carving straight into his soul as if they were shooting lasers into the very essence of his being.

The effect is something eerily similar to what he feels like sitting up on the examination table at the doctors she drags him to—like she's cataloguing his weaknesses, assembling them all into the rough outline of a person, but one that's missing everything he likes about himself. Weak lungs, _high voice._ Fragile bones, _small stature_. A compromised immune system, _the fact that, unlike Bill and Stan and even Ben, he's never brought home a girlfriend_. It makes him feel like a freak, a specimen. How can he feel like they're violating him so deeply and yet at the same time know that they know nothing about him at all?

Of course, maybe this is all he is: a shadow of a boy in a thin paper gown, pinned under the stethoscope, under the microscope. Sometimes he swears it's like they're watching every pulse of his heartbeat—he wonders what they would do to him if they happened to notice it changing.

A significant part of him wishes she would just slap him and get it over with.

"I'm sorry, Mommy," he says finally, just because he can't take it anymore. Sometimes being safe is more important than being right, and though he's not sure which one of them is going to drop dead if this thing goes on much longer, they definitely won't both be making it through.

She stares at him one moment more, then sighs. He's actually shaking when she pulls him into a suffocating hug. And she's shaking, too, he realizes—because she's scared. (Well, he supposes she could be just really, really angry, but he's choosing to believe that she's scared because she's his mother and he wants to think, at the end of the day, that all the messed up shit she pulls is because she actually cares about him.)

She's just scared.

Not that there's anything to be scared _of_, of course, not on his end, no sirree—

He's just starting to find it hard to breathe again when she pulls away—but just enough to manhandle him to the bed.

"Sit down, Edward," she says. "We're going to establish some new rules."

He hates himself for it, he really does, but he sits immediately. She pets his hair at his obedience, and it makes his skin crawl, but there's something about it that's still vaguely comforting, too.

"First," she says, when she's given him a moment to make sure he's paying attention, "you are going to tell me where you're going every time you leave the house, and how long you plan to be gone. I'm sorry, Eddie-bear, but it's for your own good."

He lets the rules wash over him, trying not to show on his face that, somewhere over the course of this conversation, his horrified confusion has given way to bright, boiling anger. _You have a new curfew. You have to keep your door open—not just unlocked, open. You'll show me your homework every night, so I know you're getting it done. You'll ask a nice girl—Greta Keene, perhaps?—to prom when it's time for all that, and bring her here to see me, besides._

He can't believe it. It's like he's a toddler, not a person about to grow up and become an adult, like he's some kind of unfortunate property instead of a thinking, changing being who should be allowed to find things out for himself. And however much she tries to spoon-feed him dreams and fears and an entire personality, he knows that none of that is true.

Because you know what? He's almost seventeen fucking years old. The world won't end if he goes wherever he wants (within reason—not somewhere dangerous, obviously), if he changes clothes with his door closed. He can skip an assignment and stay out late on weekends and see his friends and sleep with whoever the fuck he wants—not that he wants—because he _doesn't_—

Furthermore, what he certainly _never_ wanted was to sit here thinking about Richie of all people sleeping with someone. Which he obviously isn't thinking about, because that would be weird. But if he was, if he did think about it, he definitely knows that he wouldn't be interested in a person with an evil mother and fuzzy goddamn slippers on their feet—

And God, why did she have to burst into his room and make everything so different and weird and goddamn complicated?

In front of him, his mother is still going strong. "We're going to spend weekends with my sister, and go to church on Sundays up there," she's saying now. "I think this new preacher spent too much time in the city—he doesn't know what lessons are good for a little town like this. So I'll let him know that he's not good for our community, and we'll try this instead." She nods to herself, pleased.

He's still angry, he's _so_ angry, but he's also exhausted and wants her to go away, and so he sighs and nods. While that last rule in particular is not ideal—most of the Losers' best escapades happen on the weekends now, with so many of them involved in so many different things at school—his mom and her sister don't exactly get along, and they can never stomach each other for more than a few visits in a row. She'll forget about that one by the time school's out for the summer. He'll be okay.

His mother presses a wet kiss to her forehead that makes his stomach turn and lumbers her way to the door, and Eddie lets himself breathe a little easier as she moves away. He doubts he'll sleep tonight—like, _at_ _all_—but at least he can lay here and stare at the ceiling in numb silence that's not broken by her horrible voice and wild, messed-up ideas.

But then she turns back sends him a vicious grin, and his stomach drops.

"One last thing, Eddie. That Tozier boy and I need to have a little talk." She flicks off his light, leaving him to make a horrified face into the darkness. "I think at dinner tomorrow—invite him."

And, the previous rules definitely weren't _great_—but if that doesn't just sound like the worst possible thing Eddie can think on the entire planet.

He knows he can't refuse outright, not without inviting some creative problem solving that he certainly won't like the outcome of. Maybe she'll call his guidance counselor and try to get his classes changed so he doesn't see Richie during the day. Maybe she'll drive to the school with a megaphone and wait for them to come out after the final bell. Maybe she'll punish him with about a hundred inconveniently-timed doctor visits, or take him away for weeks at a time so he can think about what he's done—it's not like she hasn't tried something like that before. But regardless, whatever she plans is sure to mess up his life in ways he won't be able to just bounce back from. And while he obviously doesn't want that for a whole bunch of personal reasons, what he most definitely doesn't want is to be forced to leave his friends—to leave Richie—alone.

"He won't come," he says firmly instead, because he knows Richie and he knows there's no way he's coming back here anytime soon. The kid is a self-proclaimed lover, not a fighter, and he's been known to lay low for weeks if he thinks he can wait out a confrontation from the safety and comfort of his own cozy home.

But his mother just smiles like she knows something he doesn't. "We'll just see about that, now won't we," she smirks, and he hates her smug expression—he _hates_ it.

He wishes to God he could get away—just once—with slamming the door right in her face.

But deep down, he knows even that wouldn't make this go away.


End file.
